Separate Tables

by Terence Rattigan

  CHARLES. Miss Cooper?

  JEAN (scornfully). Miss Cooper? No. She’s as gay as a bee pinning up her notices in the bathroom and being generally managerial. No. I meant the new one.

  CHARLES. Mrs. Shankland? But you’ve only met her for a second an hour ago.

  JEAN. A woman can’t fool another woman with a pretty dress and a gay manner and a bright smile. She’s been through some form of hell, that creature. Anyway, what’s she doing down here? Dressed like that and looking like that she ought to be at the Royal Bath, or somewhere – (Darkly.) Besides – she’s not wearing a wedding ring.

  CHARLES. Really, Jean, you’re getting as bad as the old girls. Perhaps it’s got broken or something.

  JEAN. She’s divorced – that I’m sure of.

  CHARLES. Well, all right. So she’s divorced. Does that make her a tragic figure? I should have thought according to your ideas on marriage, it ought to make her a happy one.

  JEAN. My ideas on marriage are only for us, Charles – because I’m going to have a career and you’re going to be a famous surgeon and don’t want hordes of children cluttering up your consulting-room. But most people aren’t as sensible as we are. They get married and are miserable when it goes wrong. Thank heavens that can’t happen to us. We’re too integrated. At least I am, I know, and I hope you are too –

  CHARLES. Come and give me a kiss and I’ll show you how integrated I am.

  JEAN. I’d only put lipstick on your collar and the old girls will notice.

  CHARLES. Sometimes, Jean darling, I’m not sure I wouldn’t like to see you, just ever so slightly, disintegrate.

  He strides over and kisses her. She appears quite to enjoy the embrace. There is the sound of voices in the hall.

  CHARLES. Oh blast!

  JEAN (levelly). Wipe your mouth.

  CHARLES. Damn it all, even the old girls know the facts of life.

  JEAN. They may know them, but they don’t like them.

  MRS. RAILTON-BELL and LADY MATHESON come in.

  MRS. RAILTON-BELL. Yes, wasn’t he splendid? He completely floored that horrid socialist – (Coldly.) Hullo. Finished your work?

  CHARLES. Yes.

  JEAN (overlapping). Yes we have. Just going to bed.

  MRS. RAILTON-BELL. Good night.

  CHARLES. Good night, Mrs. Railton-Bell.

  JEAN (overlapping). Good night, Lady Matheson.

  They go out.

  MRS. RAILTON-BELL. They’ve been making love.

  LADY MATHESON. How do you know?

  MRS. RAILTON-BELL. The look in their eyes. And just as I came in he was putting a handkerchief away with lipstick marks on it.

  LADY MATHESON. Well, perhaps they are in love. I always thought there must be something.

  MRS. RAILTON-BELL. But they’re supposed to have come here just to work. Old friends, and all that. That’s what they told Miss Cooper. If they’re in love, why don’t they say so? I hate anything furtive. What were we saying?

  They take their (evidently usual) seats by the fire.

  LADY MATHESON. About the man on television being so good.

  MRS. RAILTON-BELL. Oh yes. Now what was it he said that was so true –

  The french windows are opened from the outside and the curtains are blown violently inwards.

  Good gracious!

  After a moment’s battling with the bellying curtains, JOHN emerges. He is wearing a drenched raincoat.

  Please close that at once. There’s the most terrible draught.

  JOHN. A draught? Oh yes.

  He disappears behind the curtains again. MRS.

  RAILTON-BELL exchanges a speaking glance with LADY MATHESON and frames the word ‘drunk’ with her lips.

  LADY MATHESON. Yes. Now what was it he said? So telling. Something about the national cake.

  JOHN’s struggles to close the french windows are concluded. He emerges again and, still in his mackintosh, walks over to a chair by the fire, where he warms his hands. The two ladies look at him, and MRS. RAILTON-BELL decides to ignore his presence.

  MRS. RAILTON-BELL. Yes. I remember now. It was in that wonderful answer he gave about levelling up rather than levelling down. He said, don’t you remember, that whereas the Socialists were only concerned about cutting the national cake into exactly equal slices, the Conservatives were trying to increase the size of the cake.

  She glances at JOHN to see if this has registered. Still holding his hands to the fire he does not appear to have heard.

  MRS. RAILTON-BELL. And then he said that every wage increase meant a smaller cake for cutting –

  JOHN (abruptly). Who said this?

  MRS. RAILTON-BELL. Sir Roger Williamson, on television.

  JOHN. I might have guessed it.

  MRS. RAILTON-BELL (bristling). I gather you don’t agree with what he said, Mr. Malcolm?

  JOHN. Of course I don’t agree. You know damn well I don’t agree. That’s not the point. They’ve got some clever people in that party. Why do they have to put an old ass like that on television – with a falsetto voice, a face like an angry walrus and the mind of a backward child of eight?

  MRS. RAILTON-BELL. That was not our impression of Sir Roger.

  JOHN does not reply. He seems, for the moment, to be lost in reverie.

  JOHN. Poor old Roger. I suppose he needs the dough to make a little back on what he spends on all those girl friends of his.

  MRS. RAILTON-BELL (after a moment’s appalled silence). Do I understand that you are personally acquainted with Sir Roger, Mr. Malcolm?

  JOHN turns and looks at her as if, for the moment, he had been oblivious of her presence.

  JOHN. No. Never met him.

  MRS. RAILTON-BELL. Then may I ask by what right –

  JOHN. No right. I just hear things, that’s all.

  MRS. RAILTON-BELL. Some very libellous things, if I may say so.

  JOHN. Yes, the greater the truth the greater the libel is the phrase, isn’t it? What else did Sir Roger say? Did he mention the go-slow in the docks?

  MRS. RAILTON-BELL. Yes. As a matter of fact he did. He said that the dock workers seemed to have no sense of national responsibility –

  JOHN. There’s no body of men in England with more.

  MRS. RAILTON-BELL. That’s no doubt something else that you have heard, Mr. Malcolm.

  JOHN. No. That’s something I know, I used to be a docker myself.

  Pause.

  MRS. RAILTON-BELL (at length). I am not, if I may say so, at all surprised to hear it.

  JOHN. And I am not surprised you’re not surprised, Mrs. Railton-Bell. (He burps gently.) Excuse me. Too much whisky.

  He sits down, still in his mackintosh. MRS. RAILTON-BELL and LADY MATHESON exchange a glance, JOHN intercepts it.

  Keeps the cold out, you know. I gather you two ladies read the New Outlook?

  MRS. RAILTON-BELL. I certainly never do any such thing. I wouldn’t soil my hands –

  JOHN. That’s just what I thought. Do you, Lady Matheson?

  LADY MATHESON. I have glanced at it on occasions, yes. (Hastily.) Not for the political side, of course, but it has very good music criticism.

  JOHN. So it was you who found out I was Cato, was it? Smart of you. How did you guess?

  LADY MATHESON (confused). If you must know, you left some typescript lying about on that table over there. I picked it up, not knowing what it was, and read just the opening paragraph, no more, but it was enough for me to recognize it in print a week or so later.

  JOHN. I see. My fault then. No ill-feelings – on this side anyway. (He burps again.) Excuse me. What was the article on?

  LADY MATHESON. Dividends and wages.

  JOHN. Did you read it all?

  LADY MATHESON. Yes, I did.

  JOHN. What did you think of it?

  LADY MATHESON (with unusual spirit). Since you ask I thought it was monstrous – utterly monstrous. I very nearly wrote you a letter about it.

  JOHN. I wish you had. I enjoy controversy.
You must have taken it a bit personally, I’m afraid.

  LADY MATHESON. And how else could I take it? Do you realise that I have to live on a little less than half of what the average dock worker makes a year? My husband was in the Civil Service and died before the pension scheme came into force. Still, the sum he left me seemed perfectly adequate at the time. And now –

  JOHN. I know. You can’t afford to have your wireless repaired – and you live by it. You had to move into a small back room when they raised the hotel prices last year. You can only afford one cinema a week, in the front rows. I bet you don’t even buy the New Outlook – you borrow it. In short by any reasonable standards you’re well below the poverty line, and, as the poor have always had my passionate sympathy, Lady Matheson, you have mine.

  LADY MATHESON. Thank you, but I can do very well without it.

  JOHN. I wonder if you can. You’re the unlucky victims of our revolution – you and Miss Meacham and Mr. Fowler and the others. You should appeal to our humane instincts, Lady Matheson.

  LADY MATHESON. By voting for your side, I suppose.

  JOHN. That would be the most practical way, I agree.

  LADY MATHESON (staunchly). Never. Never till I die.

  MRS. RAILTON-BELL. Tell me, why didn’t you mention me just now, when you were talking of victims?

  JOHN. Because you’re not one, and won’t be, either, until our capital levy gets at that tidy little nest-egg of yours.

  MRS. RAILTON-BELL (utterly outraged. To LADY MATHESON). I think we should go, Gladys, and leave Mr. Malcolm down here to sleep it off.

  The two ladies rise.

  JOHN. Oh, are you leaving, ladies? I mustn’t forget my manners, must I?

  He gets out of the chair, with slight difficulty.

  I’ve enjoyed our little chat. Don’t forget, next election – vote Labour.

  MRS. RAILTON-BELL. It’s our own fault, Gladys. We should never have allowed ourselves to be drawn into an argument with a drunken red.

  She has plainly intended this as an exit line, but her exit is delayed because LADY MATHESON is feverishly searching the room for something.

  (Impatiently.) Come along, Gladys.

  LADY MATHESON. I’ve left my reading glasses somewhere.

  MISS COOPER comes in with a tray on which is a coffeepot and a cup.

  MISS COOPER (brightly). Here you are, Mrs. Railton-Bell. I’m not too late, I hope.

  MRS. RAILTON-BELL (with heavy meaning). Thank you, Miss Cooper, but I’m not having my coffee tonight. (Impatiently, to LADY MATHESON.) Can’t you find them, dear?

  LADY MATHESON. I’ll just have another look in my chair.

  She goes to her chair. MISS COOPER meanwhile has quickly taken in the scene. She puts the tray down and she stares coldly at JOHN.

  MISS COOPER (in a very managerial voice). Mr. Malcolm, did you come in through the french windows?

  JOHN (humbly). Yes, I did.

  MISS COOPER. You know that there’s a hotel rule against that?

  JOHN. I’d forgotten it. I’m very sorry.

  MISS COOPER. There’s mud all over the floor, (advancing on his chair) and you’ve been sitting in this chair with your wet mackintosh on. Oh really!

  JOHN. I’m very sorry.

  MISS COOPER. I must ask you if you would be so kind as to take your mackintosh off and hang it up in the proper place. Also to wipe your shoes on the mat provided for that purpose.

  JOHN. Yes. I’m very sorry.

  He goes past MRS. RAILTON-BELL and out into the hall. LADY MATHESON is still looking in her chair.

  MISS COOPER (anxiously). Has there been a little bother?

  MRS. RAILTON-BELL. A little bother is a distinct understatement.

  MISS COOPER. Oh dear! What was it?

  MRS. RAILTON-BELL. I would prefer not to discuss it now. (Very impatiently.) For heaven’s sake come along, Gladys. That dreadful man may be back at any moment.

  LADY MATHESON (triumphantly). Ah, I’ve got them. They were underneath the chair.

  MRS. RAILTON-BELL. I can’t think why you didn’t look there in the first place.

  LADY MATHESON. Well, I was sitting in Mr. Fowler’s chair after dinner, you see, as the new lady was sitting in mine, quite inadvertently, I’m sure, and I thought –

  MRS. RAILTON-BELL. It doesn’t matter, dear. Go along now. Quick.

  She shoos her through the door and turns to MISS COOPER.

  I should like to see you tomorrow morning after breakfast, Miss Cooper. Good night.

  MISS COOPER. Good night, Mrs. Railton-Bell.

  MRS. RAILTON-BELL goes out. MISS COOPER sighs and goes over to the chair in which JOHN has sat. She takes the cushion out and places it near the fire. MR. FOWLER comes in, and goes over to the writing-desk.

  MR. FOWLER. Ah, there you are, Miss Cooper. I’ve come for some notepaper.

  MISS COOPER. Any luck, Mr. Fowler?

  MR. FOWLER. I’m afraid not. I shall try again, of course. I’m quite sure there’s been some mistake – a telegram wrongly addressed, or something.

  MISS COOPER. I expect so.

  MR. FOWLER. I don’t want anyone to wait up, but as I can hear the front-door bell from my room, I wonder if you’d mind if I answer it myself tonight?

  MISS COOPER. That’s quite all right, Mr. Fowler, but you’re surely not still expecting him, are you?

  MR. FOWLER. He might have hired a car, you know. He’s a very extravagant boy. You know what these artists are. Well, good night.

  MISS COOPER. Good night, Mr. Fowler.

  MR. FOWLER goes out. MISS COOPER wanders over to inspect the muddy footprints on the carpet. She is on her knees as JOHN comes back. He sits down moodily, in silence. MISS COOPER methodically finishes scraping up pieces of dried mud, walks to the waste-paper basket and throws them in. Then she goes to MRS. RAILTON-BELL’s unwanted coffee and pours a cup, black, with two lumps of sugar. Silently she hands it to him. He takes it, looking up at her, and sips it. She sits on the arm of his chair and leans her head affectionately on his shoulder.

  (Gently.) Are you very drunk?

  JOHN. No.

  MISS COOPER. How many?

  JOHN. As many as I could afford. It wasn’t a lot.

  Pause. She takes his hand.

  MISS COOPER. Something’s the matter, isn’t it?

  JOHN. Nothing much.

  MISS COOPER. Want to tell me?

  JOHN. I can’t tell you.

  MISS COOPER (cheerfully). That’s all right. What did you say to the old women?

  JOHN. Too much. Far too damn much. Oh God!

  He puts the coffee down, gets up and walks away from her. She watches him anxiously.

  I may have to leave.

  MISS COOPER (sharply). You can’t leave.

  JOHN. I may have to.

  MISS COOPER. You won’t have to. I’ll see to that. But was it so bad?

  JOHN (bitterly). Not very bad, I suppose. Just an ordinary show-off, a rather sordid little piece of alcoholic self-assertion. Taking it out on two old women, telling them what a brilliant political thinker I am, hinting at what a great man I once was. I even gave away that I used to work in the docks.

  MISS COOPER. Oh Lord!

  JOHN. And that I knew Roger Williamson. I think I covered that up, though. I hope I did.

  MISS COOPER. I hope you did too, otherwise old Railton-Bell will be on to it like a bloodhound. Anything else?

  JOHN. I don’t know. I can’t think now. I’ll remember it all in the morning. (Miserably.) Oh, Pat. I’m so sorry.

  He puts his arm round her affectionately.

  MISS COOPER. That’s all right. I’ll cover up for you. Finish your coffee.

  He obediently takes the cup up again.

  JOHN. Why do I do these things? I used to know how to behave.

  MISS COOPER (kissing him gently on the cheek). I’d do them too, in your place.

  JOHN. Don’t over-dramatise me. I do that enough myself. I’d probably have been nothing.

&n
bsp; MISS COOPER. What about that newspaper cutting about yourself you showed me which prophesied –?

  JOHN. One political tipster napping an outsider. If nothing happens his tip is forgotten. If, by a fluke, it does, he can say: ‘Look how clever I was twenty years ago – ’

  MISS COOPER. But before you were even thirty you’d been made a Junior Minister.

  JOHN (brusquely rising). Yes, yes, yes. It doesn’t matter. The world is full of promising young men who haven’t, in middle age, fulfilled their promise. There’s nothing to that. Nothing at all.

  He has turned away from her and is staring at the floor.

  MISS COOPER (quietly). I wish you’d tell me what’s happened.

  JOHN. I can’t. I’ve told you I can’t. But it’s not important.

  MISS COOPER. Important enough for quite a few whiskies.

  JOHN. A lot of things are important enough for that. The day I heard Willy Barker had been made a Cabinet Minister I had a bottle.

  Pause.

  MISS COOPER. Couldn’t you ever get back?

  JOHN laughs sharply.

  JOHN. God, what a field day for the Tory press that would be! John Malcolm Ramsden has decided to stand as a Labour Independent for his old constituency. It will be recalled that Mr. Ramsden, who was a Junior Minister in the 1945 Administration, went to prison for six months in 1946 on the triple charge of assaulting a police officer in the course of his duty, of being drunk and disorderly and of causing grievous bodily harm to his wife. The headline – Gaol-Bird Stands Again. No thank you. I’ll stay John Malcolm – journalist, middle-aged soak and has-been, the terror of the older lady residents of the Hotel Beauregard, Bournemouth. That’s vastly preferable, I assure you.

  He has turned away from her again. She goes up to him quietly and puts her arms on his shoulders.